


the 1

by amscray_punk



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, I dunno what possessed me to write this, M/M, One Shot, Songfic, anyway, ha get it, in my defense i have none
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27861942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: A little Sprace one shot songfic inspired by the 1 by Taylor Swift.*Rating for language**Not connected to any of my existing AUs
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35
Collections: Awesome fics, Newsies of New York





	the 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno what to say about this actually, it just sorta happened and I have lovely friends who support (enable) me endlessly so here it is. Pls enjoy :)
> 
> Oh, and maybe you'll notice I very slightly altered one of the lines to fit them better :) and no offense to Boston

_I'm doing good, I'm on some new shit_ _  
_ _Been saying "yes" instead of "no"_ _  
_ _I thought I saw you at the bus stop, I didn't though_

Normally, he'd never go to Brooklyn.

But he's trying new things, isn’t he? Living a little. Branching out. Starting to understand that sometimes, you have to chase opportunities. He’s thrown himself into his work, yes, but he's making time for friends now, too. And Jack had practically begged him to come, had wanted Race to meet his new boyfriend so badly–and he couldn't remember ever seeing Jack like this before. So he'd gone, of course, and they'd had lunch at this little Italian place–a bit overpriced, but still pretty good, for Brooklyn. And really, it had been worth the trip to see Jack like that; moony-eyed and flushed, head over heels and it had made Racer think that maybe, just maybe today will be a good day.

For the first time in a long time, the thought feels less like a mantra and more like an observation. Race can't say _why_ , either; can just feel it in his bones. He pulls his long legs onto the bus seat, crisscross applesauce like always, bouncing his knees absently as he stares out the window. The late spring sun shines hot through the glass, hotter than it is outside as the bus slows to a stop. He’s just begun to unzip his hoodie when his gaze snags on a profile, dark hair a little too long but achingly familiar and his heart stops in his chest.

He's on his feet before he realizes it, half-jogging down the aisle to get a better look out the window. It can't be… can it? Race stops three seats from the front of the bus, heart pounding as he keeps his eyes laser-focused on the man, weaving through the crowd at the bus stop. The loud, annoyed clearing of a throat startles him and he glances over his shoulder sheepishly; he's holding up the line. His feet make the decision for him and before he knows it he's on the sidewalk, jostled by the disgruntled passengers who stomp off after him but he ignores them, still searching for that hair. His heart leaps when he finds it, only to drop just as quickly. It's not him. Of course it’s not him. This man is a little too tall, shoulders not quite broad enough, hair definitely too long. Race lets out a little groan as he turns to see the bus drive away, another dark-haired man now occupying the window seat Race has just vacated.

And he’s still in Brooklyn.

 _I hit the ground running each night_ _  
_ _I hit the Sunday matinée_ _  
_ _You know the greatest films of all time were never made_

God, and what if it _had_ been him? What then?

Race could kick himself as he stands there, rooted to the sidewalk, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie that’s definitely too warm, now. What was he _thinking_ , running off the bus like that? That Spot would look up to the sound of his name with a smile? Or maybe he thought Spot would notice _him_ first, that he’d get to hear “Racer?” in that pleasantly surprised tone his subconscious mind doesn’t seem to want to let him forget. 

Well. He’d better start walking.

 _I guess you never know, never know_ _  
_ _And if you wanted me, you really should've showed_ _  
_ _And if you never bleed, you're never gonna grow_ _  
_ _And it's alright now_

It’s a nice day, at least; late enough in the spring that even the mornings are warm, close enough to summer that the afternoons are sometimes unbearable. He pushes his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows and starts walking, mind beginning to wander even as he tries not to let it.

He knows it’s best not to dwell. He’s been getting better about that, actually; it’s so easy to want to look back, to reach out and grab your former self by the shoulders and shake and shake. Easy to see where they’d gone wrong. Race knows what they say about hindsight, after all. And really, it isn’t fair to either of them. They’d gone into it knowing it wouldn’t last, that it couldn’t. That Spot would leave, that Race couldn’t handle the distance. At least, that had been the excuse, the one that lifted the responsibility equally from both of their shoulders.

And that was fine. Yeah, it had hurt. A lot. And Racer had taken a little… okay, a lot more time to heal than he usually needed. His friends had been rightfully concerned. But healing is just growing, isn’t it? Growing new skin to cover the wounds. And he has grown; he's still growing. Growing to be comfortable with himself, by himself. For himself, maybe. 

_But we were something, don't you think so?_ _  
_ _Roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool_ _  
_ _And if my wishes came true_ _  
_ _It would've been you_

But sometimes he can’t help it. 

Can’t help letting his mind wander, run free with the possibilities of what could have been, if they'd tried. The memories of what they _had_ been. Six weeks, that was it. Six weeks together, of being attached at the hip. And the time had flown by, just the way they say it does. Parties at his friends’ shitty apartments; treks to Brooklyn to meet Spot’s friends only to find out he already knew some of them; long walks through the park at night, cold hands tucked into his pockets like they are now, only with Spot’s warm ones wrapped around them. 

His hands always were so warm. 

Even on the rooftop on New Year’s, counting down to midnight, Spot’s hands had been warm. Warm on his waist, on his cheek, on the back of his neck and up into his hair as he kissed him amidst a backdrop of cheers and whistles that had simply faded away. But it doesn’t do to dwell.

 _In my defense, I have none_ _  
_ _For never leaving well enough alone_ _  
_ _But it would've been fun_ _  
_ _If you would've been the one_

Six weeks, eighteen months. 

It isn’t like he never would have seen him again. Not like he’d left the country, or _died_ ; nothing so dramatic as that. Spot had just been home on winter break, visiting friends and family, bound to head back to Boston to finish med school soon enough. Six weeks. How many times in those six weeks did Race try to get him to stay? Teased him for living in _Boston_ of all places, for trading in his Brooklyn accent, even though it wasn’t true–Spot always took particular offense to that one, which was why Racer did it. It was almost cute, how he got all huffy about it.

But Race’s life is here, in the city, _the_ city, as far as he’s concerned. And he’d just booked a job; not his dream job, of course, but it was one more step on the path, one more rung on the ladder of getting there. And he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ throw that away. Even if those six weeks had felt more like six months.

Six _weeks_? Would they have stood a chance? Race knows–well, he's pretty sure he knows–that he made the right choice. Even if that choice still hurts, sometimes.

 _I have this dream you're doing cool shit_ _  
_ _Having adventures on your own_ _  
_ _You meet someone on the internet and take ‘em home_ _  
_ _We never painted by the numbers, baby_ _  
_ _But we were making it count_ _  
_ _You know the greatest loves of all time are over now_

Race sighs as he crosses the street, almost following his feet rather than directing them. He’s in the park again and oh, there’s the fountain; it had been empty when he’d been here last. When Spot had sat on the edge and Race had wrapped his arms around his neck and Spot had pulled him into his lap and Race had gone willingly, neither thought nor care about anything else in the world except for the two of them, together. 

And so he sits on the edge of the fountain, dips his fingers into the cool water and he watches. Watches as a little girl steps up beside him, eyes squeezed shut and penny clutched tight as she makes her wish and he lets himself wonder. Wonder what he would wish for; what Spot would wish for. Wonder what Spot’s up to, now. Did he take that trip to the Rocky Mountains like he’d wanted to? Maybe he’s finally conquered his fear of heights. Race wouldn’t know; hasn’t let himself look at Spot’s Instagram in months, even though it’s public, now. Wonders if that was on purpose. 

_I guess you never know, never know_ _  
_ _And it's another day waking up alone_ _  
_ _But we were something, don't you think so?_ _  
_ _Roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool_ _  
_ _And if my wishes came true_ _  
_ _It would've been you_ _  
_ _In my defense, I have none_ _  
_ _For never leaving well enough alone_ _  
_ _But it would've been fun_ _  
_ _If you would've been the one_

It isn’t so bad now, really.

Even though most mornings he wakes up alone. Even though he used to _never_ be that way; almost always had a companion, in his own bed or someone else’s, occasionally dragging his best-friend-with-benefits to bed after a few too many shots. But Race is getting better at it–he _is_ better at it, now. Better at getting out of bed the first time he wakes up, instead of trying (and failing) to fall back asleep. Getting out of bed quickly, so he doesn’t have time to think.

And he’s gotten more productive because of it, too. Out of bed earlier, out of the apartment earlier, off to the studio to teach, to the park to practice or walk or run or _anything_ , really, to let out that energy that builds up in his muscles, in his brain. That brain that won’t let him forget what it was like to wake up next to Spot, warm and content. That won’t stop wondering what they’d have done today, if they’d woken up together. Would they have stayed in bed all day? Would they have gotten up before the sun, climbed up to the rooftop just to watch it rise?

 _I, I, I persist and resist the temptation to ask you_ _  
_ _If one thing had been different_ _  
_ _Would everything be different today?_

How many times has he had the text typed out, ready to send? He’s lost count. Eighteen months. Nearly a year of pining over Instagram, of wanting to like a particularly good selfie, that horrible surge of adrenaline every time he almost did. Too many close calls, and he’d drawn a line in the sand. He’d had to, really, to protect himself. And Spot. 

Six months, now. Six months since he’s seen even a picture of him. He still has that text saved in his drafts. Wonders if he’ll ever have the guts to send it; has a moment where he thinks, maybe someday. Maybe today. But the lump in his throat and the churning in his stomach makes him think that _someday_ really means _never_ and honestly, maybe it’s better that way.

 _We were something, don't you think so?_ _  
_ _Rosé flowing with your chosen family_ _  
_ _And it would've been sweet_ _  
_ _If it could've been me_

Six months. Eighteen months since the real thing and maybe it’s the sunshine, maybe it’s the gurgling fountain, maybe it’s just Brooklyn. But he’s sitting on the fountain and it just doesn’t _feel right_ without him, without those dark eyes that only soften when they see Racer, those warm hands holding him still and suddenly he’s pulling his legs up–crisscross applesauce–and taking out his phone. He means to click on Instagram, means to type in his name and do some harmless scrolling; just to see those eyes again. But instead he’s opening his texts and searching for the contact that still has heart emojis next to his name and he’s typing.

**Heya, Spotty. How are you? Jack told me you graduated, congrats! Can’t believe you finally did it. Well, I can actually, of course you did. And with honors huh? I**

Race freezes. His eyes are playing tricks on him. That’s the only explanation, the only _plausible_ explanation for why he’s suddenly staring at ellipses at the bottom of his screen.

Spot’s typing. A text. To him. To Race. Eighteen months. A goddamn _year and a half_ of radio fucking silence and now he’s _typing._

Race swallows hard, finger trembling as he holds down backspace, careful, _so careful_ not to hit send by accident. 

_Typing… typing…_

Race clenches his jaw, watching. Watching the ellipses appear, and disappear… there, and gone again. Waiting. Wonders if Spot saw him typing, too.

_Typing… typing…_

Both hands are trembling now as he holds his phone over his lap, half-terrified he’ll drop it into the water, or onto the concrete where it’ll hit at _just_ the right angle to shatter apart–

“Fuck,” He whispers, and adrenaline is buzzing through him now; he’s simultaneously frozen in place and dying to get up, to move, maybe to pitch his phone in the fountain like a penny and run away. Make a wish.

Spotty 💕 **: Hey, Racer**

Hey, Racer. _Hey, Racer?!_ Race is reeling, his hands suddenly as numb as they’d been on that December night, nearly fumbling his phone as he tries to think of what to say. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything, though, because Spot’s typing. Again. 

He waits.

Spotty 💕 **: God, I’m sorry, that was stupid. Idk what I was thinking**

 _Typing, typing._

Spotty 💕 **: I just, idk I’m in the city and I thought I saw you but it wasn’t you and**

Spotty 💕 **: I guess I just wanted to say hi**

Spotty 💕 **: I hope you’re doing well**

Race waits. One minute, two. Watches the ellipses appear, and disappear again. Three minutes and Spot’s not typing anymore but Race’s heart is in his throat and pounding through his chest at the same time and he’s typing back.

**Hey Spotty**

(Almost calls him Spot but at the last second matches the contact name for old time’s sake, although he leaves off the hearts; almost leaves it at that but at the last second types out another text)

**So funny that you’re in town**

He waits. 

_Typing._

Spotty 💕: **Funny how?**

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as he types and he can’t hear the fountain, anymore.

**bc I’m in Brooklyn**

The ellipses are back immediately, appearing and disappearing so quickly Race thinks maybe his phone is glitching and he’s sure Spot’s typing out an entire novel and–

“Racer?”

Race drops his phone–only into his lap, thank fuck–his head snapping up so quickly he’s surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. That voice, God, it’s that _voice_ he’d know anywhere, but _where_ –

There. Not ten feet to his left, Spot’s there. Stopped dead at the end of the fountain, looking right at him, although it feels a bit like he’s looking through him. Race doesn’t know if it’s because he hasn’t seen his face in _so long_ but he’s gorgeous, more striking even than he is in dreams because he’s _here._ Real. He’s real and he’s here and he’s got that half-smile Race can never resist, the one that could go either way depending on what Race wants, on what Race does. So he thinks about it; for half a second he actually thinks about it, then he makes a wish.

And he smiles.

 _In my defense, I have none_ _  
_ _For digging up the grave another time_  
_But it would've been fun_ _  
If you would've been the one_


End file.
